As romantic scenarios go, it’s not exactly up there with
I have been dreaming a lot lately, vivid dreams about Summercove, something I haven’t done since I was a little girl. When I was younger, at least once a week I would dream I was there. Perhaps Jay and I would be crouched on the beach, picking out shel s, our bottoms wet from the sand as the sea crashed around us. Or we’d be on the lawn, chatting with Granny as she deadheaded the roses or picked the lavender. Or playing backgammon with Arvind, at the old table on the stone patio. Sometimes the sound of the sea would rush through my head so loudly I would rise into consciousness, a powerful sense of disappointment coursing through me, as I realised I was back in the flat in Bryant Court, dark and smel ing of damp and fish, the dul light of a cold West London morning creeping in through the curtains.
I felt safe in Cornwal . I felt safe with my grandmother. She wasn’t afraid of anything, and I think, more importantly, she understood her daughter.
One summer, when Mum eventual y joined us in Cornwal , Granny had found out – I don’t know how – from Jay about the week in Lisbon, and more stuff, like the parties she’d have, how she used to leave me alone in the evenings, and she slapped her. Actual y slapped her.
It was late at night, on the terrace; I was trying to sleep in my bedroom high above the house, but their voices woke me. I could hear them, whispering at first, then gradual y louder.
‘She’s terrified, don’t you ever leave her again,’ Granny hissed. ‘You selfish little—’ I think she cal ed her a bitch.
‘Why don’t you mind your own business,’ my mother spat back at her, and I could hear it in her voice, that she was drunk, her words slurring slightly. Mum didn’t often drink much; she couldn’t hold her alcohol, stil can’t. ‘Why don’t you leave me to bring up my daughter my own way.’
‘I’d love to.’ My grandmother’s voice was silky. ‘Believe me, I would love to.’
‘Listen. I don’t need your help – you’re the last person I’d go to for help on how to bring up – up . . . bring up their children.’ There was a pause.
‘I mean, we both know that. Don’t we?’
The only answer was my grandmother laughing, low, heavy. ‘You’re drunk, Miranda.’
‘I’m stil better than you. Even after everything I’ve done. I’m stil better. And I know it, and it kil s you, Mummy.’
When I open my eyes again, it’s morning, or so I think, and I realise I’ve been in the middle of a dream about Summercove again, listening to Mum and Granny argue. I am instantly wide awake, clutching the sheets, rigid, as I remember where I am and who’s with me. I give a little moan.
Oli stirs in his sleep, rol ing towards me and scooping me up so he is curled against me and we are like two prawns. I can feel his morning erection through his boxers, poking against my thighs. He clutches me to him, and I turn my head to see his eyelashes fluttering. He makes a sound, like ‘Mmm?’ but I slide gently away from him.
‘Hey, hon,’ Oli murmurs. ‘You OK?’ He’s stil half-asleep. ‘Good,’ I whisper softly. ‘Just a dream.’ I kiss his ruffled hair, and curl into his chest, and close my eyes again, my hangover from last night kicking in. Just a dream, a false memory of something that you misremembered, you don’t need to worry about it.
‘Tha’s al right then,’ he says croakily. He takes my hand and squeezes my fingers, kissing them gently, and then kisses my neck, my ear, as I lie against him, my head on his shoulder.
Oli moves my hand down his torso, so my fingers bump against his erection. It’s done so seamlessly I’m almost surprised. He smiles, his eyes closed, pushing his thumb against my fingers, opening them up and guiding them so they curl onto his hard cock. ‘Good morning,’ he says again.
His other hand slides over my vest and then under, and he squeezes one of my breasts, his hands clutching my flesh, warm and sweaty. He sighs. ‘Oh, Natasha . . . babe . . .’ He arches his back against my hand, trying to rouse himself even further. ‘Mmm,’ he murmurs again.
I am stil half-asleep, can stil hear the voices of my mother and grandmother shouting at each other. My brain is not ful y in gear, not questioning everything, and so I don’t think, I just carry on stroking him, loving the feel of him again, the warmth of the bed, of his body next to mine. It just feels good.
He stops and pul s the duvet over us, and at the same time he takes off his boxers and pul s my pyjama bottoms down, sliding them off seamlessly, curling himself against me afterwards, so I can stroke him, and he can kiss my skin, rub me with his fingers. He pul s my vest aside again, nibbling on my nipple, and then he stops, and I stop, and he looks at me, panting, under the duvet. I want him. I know I want him.
‘Come inside me,’ I whisper, and he grins, boyishly, and nods. ‘Lie back, babe,’ he says. With barely any preamble he’s between my legs, rubbing his cock against me. He does this for a minute, and then wraps his hand round himself.
‘Oh, Natasha,’ he says, his slight frame shuddering as he pushes inside me. ‘Oh. Oh.’ He buries his head over my shoulder, and I can’t see his face.
Suddenly, everything’s changed. I feel nothing. I am wide awake now, and it’s different. Oli leans down to kiss me. His breath is stale, rank, his mouth is open, his eyes are half-closed. I can’t do it, I can’t kiss him, I pretend to arch my back and tilt my head. He puts his hands on my hair, pul ing it, and I cry out.
‘Yes,’ he says. ‘You’re pul ing my hair, darling,’ I say. I look down, and see I’m stil wearing my thick green bedsocks, as he moves inside me.
He hasn’t noticed.
‘It’s so good, you’re so good,’ he tel s me. ‘I’m so close . . . how about you?’
I want to shout with laughter at the idea that I too am on the verge of orgasming wildly after thirty seconds of sex, but instead I pul his fingers away from my hair. I just want it to be over. He puts his hands either side of my
